


In My Secret Life

by Indybaggins



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-03
Updated: 2008-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as he can remember he has never been allowed to smoke as much as he wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Secret Life

**Author's Note:**

> This originally was the beginning of my NaNo novel. Title is from a Leonard Cohen song.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/indybaggins/media/b04bestestablished2008.png.html)  
> 

 

 

Six years after the last Whose Line episode is filmed, after the Drew Carey show has ended and his unofficial retirement has begun, Ryan still owns a house in L.A. 

He had gotten rid of the first one years ago (once owned by Liberace, with the piano-shaped pool), because he had been so sure he wouldn’t need it anymore, not when he was going home to stay. He had even promised himself as much, going by the assumption he had never really wanted to be in L.A. in the first place. But then he had lasted less than a year before buying a house in the hills without ever having seen it. 

He doesn’t go there too often, once every couple of months at most. It’s more than a thousand miles of highway, but still he drives every single time. It ruins both his back and his voice as he smokes cigarette after cigarette, tossing them through the window, occasionally mumbling along with the radio, tapping the beat on his steering wheel. 

There is a small bar outside Sacramento where the alcohol flows freely; neat rows of shot glasses line up before him, cool pints of dark beer with white foam that slick his lips. He usually makes it there by sun-down, shirt sticking to his back with sweat, knees popping as he gets out of the car and goes to order a greasy burger and fries. He listlessly fingers the basket they come in, watches the game on tv, because there is always a game on in bars like these, and lights another cigarette. 

For as long as he can remember he has never been allowed to smoke as much as he wanted to. So on these days, he does. As the hours pass by and one game follows another, he lets his body relax in the haze of alcohol, the deep pounding in his head, the flush on his cheeks.

The fact that by midnight he will walk out, leaving a generous tip on the bar, and crawl back into his car is almost infinitely stupid, but he never thinks of it that way. He can drive drunk better than most and California traffic is hell during rush hours; better to avoid them entirely. At night the S5 highway is just one wide expanse of asphalt, the occasional headlights of another car, nothing there but distance to cross. 

Hours later his vision is blurry, eyes blinking against sleep, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel to stay awake. The sun rises in a faded orange haze over the city as he drives up to it. A couple of years ago he still would have been able to make the drive without truly feeling too put out; but this morning the only thing keeping him awake is the back-ache and the cramping in his muscles, too strong to be overpowered by the alcohol that has died down to a distant memory.

As he takes a sharp left, empty coffee containers roll around on the floor of the passenger seat and make a dull sound when they all pile up against the door. He doesn’t notice. 

He doesn’t actually need to cross L.A., which is a blessing in itself, and the only reason he doesn’t miss the final turn is because he has driven this particular street so often he could do it in his sleep. The radio is playing an old Guns ‘n Roses song as he turns into his own driveway. 

There are flowers blooming by his doorstep, brightly pink and purple, and their sickly-sweet smell hits him when he steps out of the car; the beginning heat of the day warming his shoulders. He doesn’t care to lock his car, or even take the keys out of the ignition, and so the radio plays on while Ryan goes inside, the song dying down moments after he downs a painkiller and stretches out on top of the covers of his bed, already half-asleep. 

 

Almost twenty miles across the city, the same morning light grows in strength as the sun rises until it shines through an uptown villa’s window and lands squarely on a large white pillow. A small cat, ocelot-like spots gleaming in the sunlight, blinks her yellow eyes sleepily and then stretches out, raw tongue a flash of pink as she yawns. The warm spot on the white pillow is where she prefers to sleep, curled between the man’s shoulder and neck. But he always gets restless near morning, twisting and turning until she too is pulled from her dreams. Getting up, she deftly steps over a pair of folded glasses and a half-opened book on the nightstand, moves around the alarm clock and jumps to the windowsill. It’s even warmer there. 

The man doesn’t notice her leaving, but when a couple of minutes later he makes a violent turn, he mumbles her name in his sleep and pats the empty space on his pillow. Shia’s ears twitch. 

Greg, unlike Ryan, has lived in L.A. for years now and wouldn’t want to move anywhere else. He appreciates both the superficial glamor and the all-concealing lifestyle of being in the most fame-ridden place on earth. He can deal with the occasional paparazzi lurking around his garbage bins, truly they just make him grin, and has stopped noticing the smog burning his lungs (yet misses something when he leaves). He enjoys his life here almost as much as he once was addicted to the ruling self-depraving sense of imperialism in London, and that’s saying a lot. He only occasionally wonders if he just reflects his own sense of life at the time he lived in said cities, or if they really have such a vastly different character in themselves. He hasn’t found the answer yet. 

When Greg wakes up that morning, his first thought isn’t about Ryan. He can’t even remember a time where it was (although there was a time like that, certainly). Instead he has half-formed thoughts about having to pee, breakfast, and then focuses all his attention on not stumbling over Jen’s bright pink slippers which somehow migrated over to his side of the bed. And how he doesn’t want to think about the fact that he probably wore them the night before, or that he vaguely remembers them being too small, but still comfortable. 

So it happens that’s he’s half-way through a jerk-off session in the shower when he remembers that oh, Stiles, and yeah, that’s today. After assessing the situation and a long, hard sigh, he turns on the cold water. He knows that when it comes down to it he can wait. 

He waits through most of the day, staying inside during the hottest part of it, the hours when the sun reflects brightly on windows and passing cars in the distance, where the whole neighborhood seems to slow down to a crawl. 

Jen isn’t home today and he dutifully sprays her orchids with lukewarm water from an orange bottle, droplets of water rolling over their dusty green leaves, clinging to the flower petals like tears. He knows she talks to her flowers, she says it keeps them healthy, so he sometimes willingly directs some parts of his stand-up routine in their direction when he’s trying to get the flow right, testing whether he still knows it all. He knows it makes her smile when he does it, and that’s reason enough. Today it’s just him and the plants though, so he makes sure they won’t dry out before she returns, late tonight or maybe tomorrow, and sits down at the kitchen table. 

The papers are already there, and he busies himself with reading about the world, the upcoming election, yet another blunder of the current administration. He waits until the heat dies down a bit, a soft breeze coming through the opened window, playing with the curtains, until he steps in his blood-hot car and drives North. 

 

When Ryan wakes his eyes feel like someone poured sand into them, his shirt is sticking to his body, hair plastered to his forehead. It’s at least a hundred degrees in his room. The large windows giving into the garden are unshielded, ceiling fan hanging still above his head, air-conditioning never even turned on. Through the warm, slow haze, he hears the sound of a door opening and closing in the distance. He knows it’s either Greg or the maid, so he doesn’t bother to get up as he hears someone nearing the door. He knows it’s Greg as there is no knock, but the door still gets opened quietly. If he was sleeping, Greg wouldn’t have woken him, and he finds a second to like that thought before Greg’s voice is there, a flash of his clothes and smell as he sits down on the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. He’s already lowering himself down and toeing off his shoes when Ryan says something that’s supposed to be “hello” but sounds more like a groan. 

After a minute or so of silence; the ceiling fan has started slow, hypnotic spins, Greg must have turned it on; Greg says “I brought wine.” 

After that he must have dozed a bit, because suddenly he’s lying on his side, looking away from Greg, and Greg’s socked foot is absent-mindedly pressing against his lower leg. He wonders if Greg even knows he’s doing it. When he twists to face him Greg does turn out to be awake, looking at the ceiling fan, but he has taken his glasses off, they’re resting on his chest. 

Raising an eyebrow, Greg says “you stink.’ 

It makes him laugh for some reason, something warm bubbling up in the back of his throat. He says “yeah” (because of course he stinks, god) before putting his hand on the back of Greg’s neck (he feels sweat there, coarse little hairs standing against his palm) and pulling him in for a kiss. It’s a fast, a too-rough press of mouth against mouth, and he lets go almost immediately. 

He can feel the wetness of some of Greg’s spit on his lips, and he has to fight the urge to wipe it off with his sleeve. He wonders if Greg can tell, of if he was just somehow surprised by the move, because he’s smiling. Instead he just licks his lips, and, wanting to keep the sudden happy mood, says “I have a pool, right?” 

Greg doesn’t like to swim much. Ryan doesn’t know why, he’s probably never asked him either, but a second truth about Greg is, when there’s sex involved he’d do pretty much anything. So when Ryan walks through the house, stripping along the way and can hear Greg do the same a couple paces behind him, he doesn’t question anything. Ryan’s shirt and pants end up on the living room floor, a heap of khaki soon followed by two large, dark blue socks, and he’s completely naked. Greg is still unbuttoning a dark purple shirt and stepping out of faded grey boxers at that point, so Ryan just watches him. He’s pleased to see Greg is already half-hard, they don’t sleep together that often anymore, sometimes he’s not sure if Greg still wants it all that much. Right now he really seems to, and he feels a flash of heat pooling in his belly at the thought. 

Done with the stripping, Greg takes a couple steps closer, but Ryan steps away, through the sliding doors into the garden, the slight breeze and the cool tiles under his feet cooling him down a bit right away. 

The pool is protected by a large black cover, and it takes both of them a good five minutes to figure out how the system works to make it automatically roll itself back. The water seems clear though, so Ryan figures whoever does the maintenance (and he honestly can’t recall for the life of him who that is) must know what they’re doing. Stepping in, he’s briefly surprised at the temperature, it’s actually warm, and then he’s taking a couple more steps and diving down in the water, letting it cool his heated cheeks, ripple over his back and arms, make him feel awake.

 

Greg watches Ryan swim a couple laps, quick rush to the end, touch the curb, turn, back to the beginning, touch, turn, cleaving the water with his strong strokes, again and again. 

He knows Ryan drives the whole way, and he also knows there is no actual reason Ryan needs to be in L.A. He has never asked him why he actually does it, and he wonders if Ryan even knows himself. 

Wading in the water until it comes up to his chest, Greg moves to the side of the pool, not wanting to be in Ryan’s way, and pushes himself up to sit on the edge, feet dangling in the water. The water rolls down over his body, back into the pool and onto the grass behind him. There’s a large wet spot forming on the edge of concrete under his ass. He shifts uncomfortably, and then watches his dick, only moderately interested now, lying pink against his pale thigh. He knows it’s not about him. If he’s fair to himself, part of him wants it to be. But he knows it’s not.

A couple minutes later, Ryan tries to sneak up on him. Greg lets him grab his arms and pull him in. Without the right footing, he slams chest-first into Ryan and then goes under completely, the water closing in over his head, blocking his ears, white rushes of bubbles passing him by. In that fraction of a second, it’s oddly silent three feet under, seeing Ryan’s ghostly white legs step up to him, the blue sky mottled above. As soon as he breaks the surface he gulps for breath, “fuck!”, drops splashing everywhere, and Ryan is close, hands gripping his elbows, holding on to him until he’s standing on his feet again, and then some. 

While he’s catching his breath Ryan leans in a bit closer, Greg holds on to his shoulders while Ryan’s hands move under water, touching him, teasing the crack of his ass, his balls. The water sloshes around them in small nauseating waves. He finds himself suddenly noticing the small lines around Ryan’s eyes, pronounced because he’s squinting against the glaze of sunlight on water. They're getting old. He knows Ryan loves him. He has never asked and Ryan has never said, but he knows. 

A sudden gust of wind causes him to shiver, his entire body breaking out in goose bumps, and Ryan’s chest connects with his for a moment, a feeling of slick skin before turning away. 

Ryan asks him where the wine is before he leaves the pool, thoughts already somewhere else completely, and, as always, Greg envies him for that. He’s still shivering, still feeling Ryan’s ghostly touches as much as he feels the water coolly caressing his skin. Ryan is drying himself with a large green towel, and asks him something about pizza. 

When Greg climbs out of the pool, he looks past Ryan’s questioning smile to two hard wooden deck chairs standing near the grill. He’s sure Jen picked out similar dark blue and white striped pillows for the ones they have in their (albeit much smaller, pool-less) garden, and he always thought they were somewhat uncomfortable. He follows Ryan inside, their bare feet pattering sounds on the kitchen floor. The wine is breathing on the kitchen counter and the fridge has a couple menus of nearby take-away places on them. If it was up to Ryan they’d eat pepperoni pizza every single night, and seriously, he can’t let that happen. 

 

Ryan orders a gourmet Thai chicken pizza with peanut sauce, bean sprouts and shaved carrots (‘make sure they’re _shaved_ carrots’) for Greg with barely contained laughter. While he’s talking on the phone, Greg is getting back into his underwear. He follows him with his eyes as he sprawls tentatively on the cool brown leather sofa. 

As soon as he’s done dictating his address, Ryan tosses the portable phone onto one of the chairs and walks over to Greg. Nudging his legs apart with his knee, he straddles him easily and presses him back against the cushions until he can tell by Greg’s slightly cocky smile it was the exact thing he was supposed to do. He stays upright though, doesn’t mould his chest to Greg’s, doesn’t press their lips together. Not yet. 

He knows he could be worrying that neck with his teeth right now, tasting Greg and maybe a little tang of the pool they brought with them, like an acid burst against his tongue. He wants to. Instead his fingers trace, his nails pressing fading red half-moons into the skin and then soothe again, that neck. Greg doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed at some point over his right shoulder. He briefly wonders what is he’s looking at. 

His fingers move on to find the soft, sensitive patch of skin where the rim of Greg’s glasses spans from the side of his eyebrows onto his ear. He traces the smooth dark plastic, and then presses his finger under and up, making the glasses slide over Greg’s nose. Greg stills his hand as he tries to catch them, and so he lets them dangle, one moment, before they fall onto Greg’s chest and slide down to the point where his pale, hairy thigh is pressing into Greg’s belly. He smiles a little at the sight. 

When Greg speaks he was right about to go back to touching him, to trace his arm maybe, or his stomach. It sounds strangely raw, “What’s up Ryan?” and he suddenly realises Greg must have been looking away at the sand-colored walls because he didn’t want him to see him, not this time. 

“Nothing. I’m just…” his hands move involuntarily and he surprises himself by how cheated he feels by having to answer that, by having to explain anything. _I missed you_ , he wants to say, but obviously missing someone is something much more acute than what they have between them. They gave that up years ago, so now it’s just…

He moves away, but Greg’s fingers find him again, grip precise but loose on his hand. He could pull away easily, but he doesn’t. Greg smiles in the direction of their hands, a little shakily but open, “It’s fine” and he knows it’s an offer to forget, so he does. 

 

Greg’s heartbeat is fast, dull thumps in his chest. He doesn’t really know why it made him so uneasy, but it did. Ryan looks great like this, skin still damp, hair a mess of blonde curls, grey near the temples. His expression is guarded but he moves past it easily, returning his smile. Greg pushes him up, and leans over to gently bite his shoulder, lick the spot right over his collarbone. Ryan responds with a warm hum. 

So he does what he always does. Ryan knows he loves it and that’s probably the only reason he’s letting him right now, but he doesn’t care. He wants. He kneels on the carpet and traces Ryan’s thighs, kisses there with just an edge of teeth, nuzzles the line where stomach meets blonde pubic hair. When he looks up, Ryan’s eyes are closed and he’s leaning back in the sofa, relaxing. He feels comforted, somehow. 

He knows they’re not in a hurry, they rarely are anymore, and that’s what makes it so much better in his mind. There was a time where he just got a flash of Ryan’s eyes before being pinned to the wall, just a hard grip on his cock, everything harsh, everything towards the one and only goal. Ryan knows he likes to take his time to suck him off now, somewhere along those years he had understood that. 

He loves the sound Ryan makes when he licks a broad swipe across his dick, fast and dirty, almost as much as he loves the sound when he just takes the head in his mouth and runs his tongue over it, slow, so slow. Sometimes he’ll take him in as far as it will go and just keep him there, for minutes on end, closing his eyes against the sensation.

He loves it faster too, when it becomes too much he lets Ryan get up, lets him tangle fingers in his hair to keep him still while he fucks his mouth with fast, shallow thrusts. He likes Ryan’s come dripping on his face, on his tongue, or even more dramatic, striping his naked chest. He loves the ache of his jaw, the way he’ll be able to feel it for hours after, the way it makes him hoarse. 

…He also knows that, even though it’s tempting, there’s no way he’s letting Ryan get off before the pizza delivery guy gets there, and that’s why, after a last suck, he lets go. His knees are protesting already, they have a red carpet pattern engraved in them, and Ryan eyes him as he comes to sit next to him but then grins as, right on cue, the doorbell rings. 

 

Ryan’s thoughts are hazy while he watches Greg pull pants back over his boxers, looking for his wallet before he goes to open the door and pay for the food. He’s hard, still feeling Greg’s caresses, but in a distant, abstract kind of way. Greg smiles when he comes back with the pizza, and he jokes about something, seemingly fine, seemingly happy. He knows it’s a lie, but they usually give each other the privacy of lies. They need them. 

The pizza tastes good, spicy tomato sauce, pepperoni just right, but he finds he likes the wine Greg brought most, the taste sharp and dry, the perfect tone for the evening. Greg sits on the other end of the sofa, just far enough so he’s not able to touch him. He’s still wearing just pants, his bare feet pulled under him, and Ryan finds his gaze being pulled back to them again and again. He knows Greg notices, his eyes warm and promising on his dick all through the first three slices. Neither of them hurry though, sampling another glass of wine after the pizza is gone. They’re talking about politics, of all things, as he stretches out on the entire sofa so he can put his head in Greg’s lap. Greg sputters, but he knows it’s because he likes it, and maybe because he surprised him, a little. He still likes to do that. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Greg’s hand starts carding through his hair, and he closes his eyes. He has a headache, still. They keep on talking, but about nothing important. Work, life, even Jen, Pat, the kids. 

When they retreat to the bedroom though, it’s just about them, and it’s comfortable again, right. He takes out the lube they keep in the nightstand but leaves the condoms. He doesn’t think about why he knows, but he does: Greg isn’t sleeping with anyone else. 

He lets Greg lie down first so he can roll on top of him, pin him under him, kiss his wine-stained lips. Greg opens up immediately, mouth warm, and he sucks on his lower lip a little before running his tongue deeper, making him moan. They’re already moving in sync, he rubs his dick against Greg’s thigh and it’s like clock work; they’re hitting each sweet spot through years of practise, finding every long-neglected trace of skin on touch alone. 

When he comes it’s like a long, slow pull, not as much as falling over a cliff as waking up from a too-deep sleep, startling and languid at once. Greg hasn’t come yet and so he goes down, just closes his eyes and opens his mouth, and he can hear Greg talking all the way through spraying the back of his throat with slick bitterness, choking him. He can hear him murmur about flowers, but he doesn’t listen. 

He doesn’t need to hear.

 

 

 

 


End file.
